Free A Fighting Chance by William C. Dietz Page A

the Legion’s 2 nd REI (2 nd Foreign Infantry Regiment) currently conducting training exercises on Algeron. The planet that had long served as the Legion’s home—and was the current seat of the Confederacy’s government.
    Both women were getting ready for their final dinner aboard the Galaxsis . No one expected the sort of lavish meal that had been typical before the war. But the food promised to be a welcome change from the monotonous cafeteria-style meals of the last week. And, as Jones had put it moments earlier, the dinner was likely to be “. . . a very good hunting ground.” By which she meant an opportunity to meet men.
    But as Vanderveen put on her red lipstick, she was only interested in one man. And he wasn’t on the ship. The woman who looked back at her from the mirror had shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes. They were bracketed by the beginnings of tiny wrinkles. It was the price paid for her service on planets like LaNor and Jericho, not to mention the shortage of good skin creams. She sighed. “So what are you after? A colonel perhaps?”
    “Don’t be silly,” Marcie replied from inside their tiny bathroom. “Colonels are too old! A major perhaps . . . Or a handsome lieutenant.”
    “But you’re a captain,” Vanderveen objected. “Captains can’t date lieutenants.”
    “For the moment,” Jones agreed as she stepped into the stateroom. “But not forever. Once the war is over, most of us will go back to whatever we were doing before it started. And some lieutenants were doing very well indeed! How do I look?”
    Jones was petite, with military-short brown hair and a pretty face. Her uniform looked as if it had been sprayed on. “You’re the hottest captain in the Legion,” Vanderveen replied. “Bring your sidearm. You’ll need it.”
    Jones laughed. “Look who’s talking! That’s a very nice black dress . . . And those diamond earrings. Someone likes you.”
    “Yes, he does,” Vanderveen replied. “And I call him ‘Daddy.’ Are you ready? Let’s go.”
    A side corridor led the women out onto what was still called the Galactic Promenade. Even if the majority of the beings strolling along it were wearing uniforms rather than fancy evening dress. Vanderveen wasn’t the only civilian, however. Far from it. The crowd included business types, a delegation of nearly identical clones, a group of Thrakies, and a pair of brightly plumed Prithian merchants.
    Foot traffic slowed as those assigned to the second sitting jammed the approaches to the dining room. But not for long, as identical androids scanned ID bracelets and led the passengers to their tables. The dining room occupied a duraplast blister on the ship’s skin. While in orbit around a planet, passengers could look out upon the world below. And when in hyperspace, as they were at the moment, a sensaround was projected onto the curving viewport to give the impression of a starscape. That was why the spectacular Horsehead Nebula appeared to be all around them.
    As Vanderveen followed the formally attired robot down one of the spokelike corridors toward the center of the wheel-shaped room, she saw that the ship’s social director was still doing her job. Those tables located on the outer rings were traditionally occupied by relatively-lower-status beings. In this case, enlisted personnel from all the various branches. Junior and midlevel officers came next. That included Jones, who waved gaily as a waiter led her over to a table occupied entirely by men.
    Vanderveen envied the doctor in a way since military officers were a known quantity, and one could tell who outranked whom by looking at their uniforms. Her world was a good deal more complicated. Was the ambassador the one to court? Or was the title more honorary than real? Perhaps the less flashy Adjunct for Interspecies Communications had the real clout. One rarely knew when meeting foreign dignitaries for the first time.
    So as Vanderveen was led to a six-person table